


They're Gonna Be All Right

by ImpishTubist



Series: They're Gonna Be All Right [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual!Sherlock, Asexual!Sherlock/Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-03
Updated: 2011-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-23 09:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tries to figure out just what Sherlock and Lestrade are to one another and realizes that not everything can be so neatly defined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They're Gonna Be All Right

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Stephen Sondheim's "We're Gonna Be Alright."
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I own nothing.
> 
>  
> 
> _"Is it always "or"?_  
>  _Is it never "and"?"_
> 
>  
> 
> \- Stephen Sondheim, "Moments in the Woods"

John spends the better part of a year trying to figure out whether or not his flatmate is sleeping with DI Lestrade.

He could have asked, of course. Instead, he spends more time than is strictly necessary – or probably healthy – imagining what their different facial reactions would be should he take that course of action:

They are sleeping together, and when John asks, Sherlock smirks and makes a quip: "Well, I _did_ tell you I was married to my work, John." Lestrade just grunts in a non-committal manner and walks away, though John swears he notices a light flush bloom up the man's neck.

They aren't sleeping together, and when John asks, Sherlock tells him to not be more of an idiot than he already is on a regular basis and Lestrade spits out his coffee – inconveniently, all over Sergeant Donovan.

They are former lovers, and when John asks, Sherlock goes uncharacteristically quiet and Lestrade looks like a man who woke up one morning to find most his life gone and nothing to show for it.

They _want_ to be sleeping together, and after John asks, Sherlock and Lestrade spend the rest of the day studiously avoiding one another's gaze, though as Sherlock is whirling about the crime scene Johns swears he sees the DI's eyes fixate on the firm arse for a beat longer than is socially acceptable. And later on, when Lestrade is on the phone in his office and they are leaving the Yard, John sees Sherlock's gaze linger for a moment on the older man and the expression he wears is – wistful. As though _he_ were the one who woke up to find most his life gone and nothing to show for it.

John tries to piece it together in the way that Sherlock would – looking for the little details and making grand generalizations. He notices much at the crime scenes because there Sherlock is in his element, his mind finally given free reign, and Lestrade is doing what he was born to do, the quiet and unassuming man who would lay his life down to make sure one person - _one_ person – got justice.

But he notices it elsewhere, too, once he starts to look for it. There are glances and careless words and absentminded touches; there are glares and shouts and reprimands. He's sure it adds up somehow, adds up to _something_.

And so he divides up the options in his mind – _friend; colleague; brother; father; lover_ – and starts keeping track because he's not Sherlock and never will be but very few people have ever been able to accuse him of being unobservant.

 

  


* * *

They are in Lestrade's office.

John is standing because his leg is acting up and for some reason that lessens the pain. Sherlock is sprawled (there is no better word for it) in a chair before the DI's desk. The two men are discussing – vehemently – protocol and the meaning of social niceties. John adds a tally to the _colleagues_ category before his attention wanders to the various knickknacks in Lestrade's office. He's a plain man and the room reflects that – it's almost spartan in its décor. And that, John knows, makes what he _does_ choose to have in it all the more important.

The first time his gaze falls on the photograph on Lestrade's desk, he thinks nothing of it. There's a young man in it, late teens to early twenties, and John knows Lestrade is old enough to have a child that age. The DI has never mentioned family, but that doesn't mean much. It took John three months to actually find out the man's first name.

The second time his gaze falls on the photograph, he thinks with some amusement that the man in it could pass for a very young Holmes brother.

The third time his gaze falls on the photograph, he realizes that it's Sherlock.

"Something wrong?" Sherlock asks him as they're leaving. John cranes his neck as they pass by the glass windows, and because Lestrade isn't looking at them he allows himself to stare until they round the corner.

"Nothing, no, it's just – there's a photograph of you on his desk."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Yes, I'm aware. Where do you think he got it from?"

"Er – I dunno. Nicked it?"

The detective's lips thin. "Your humor could use some improvement, John. Come – I'm starving."

That tally wavers awkwardly between _parent_ and _lover_.

 

  


* * *

They are at a crime scene.

Sherlock is in a particularly foul mood. It's the third related murder in as many weeks and the newspapers have already labeled it the work of London's newest serial killer. The detective has only slept when his body shuts down of its own accord and eats when John shoves a biscuit in his mouth, and that's usually only when he pauses for breath mid-ramble.

"Dammit, Lestrade!" he roars finally, rounding on the man – who, to his credit, merely sets his jaw and raises an eyebrow. "I cannot _think_ with all this infernal incompetence! Do try to rein in your team before they destroy any more evidence; I know it's difficult for a man of your limited capacity, but –"

Lestrade silences him by reaching out and grabbing Sherlock's wrist, holding it tightly and swiping the pad of his thumb several times across the underside. The detective grinds to a halt and they stare at each other for no more than a few seconds – long enough, however, for Sherlock to draw in a sharp breath through his nose and for Lestrade to say, "Easy."

Sherlock gives a quick nod and Lestrade releases him. The detective adjusts his scarf, glances around the scene, and before John can even blink the deductions are pouring from his mouth again and Lestrade is smiling to himself.

A check is added to the _lover_ tally.

 

  


* * *

They are standing behind the Yard, smoking.

John gets caught up talking with Sergeant Donovan after the case is finished and doesn't notice right away that his flatmate has wandered off. He then spends several minutes poking his head around doors and wandering the halls, wondering idly if he should be checking supply closets as well – it hasn't escaped his notice that Lestrade is also missing. But Sherlock answers almost immediately when he finally texts, and he finds the two of them in mid-chuckle outside where they are standing shoulder-to-shoulder, backs pressed against the cool of the building.

"Oh, I'm sure she loved that," Lestrade was saying. A cigarette dangles loosely from his hand, its thin wisp of smoke curling lazily into the cool air. Sherlock snorts mid-drag and draws his own cigarette away, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

"You know very well she didn't," he says, and holds up his left hand. "Broke five bones in my hand that night. Came at me with a bat."

"Well, you _did_ break into her flat – hello, John," Lestrade says, and brings the cigarette to his mouth. "Care to join us? We're being bad." The last word doesn't quite make it past his lips intact; it's interrupted by a strangled laugh and even Sherlock quirks his lips in amusement. John feels as though he has walked in on the middle of a movie and has missed all the inside jokes – as well as the plot. He shakes his head with a quick, "No, thanks."

"No, John doesn't approve of our – _delinquency_ ," Sherlock says, but the words are softened by a flash of affection behind his eyes before he continues with his story. "Anyway: I required her refrigerator. It was for a case – _why_ people can't understand that is beyond me."

"Wait, March of oh-five?" Lestrade says suddenly. "That was – bloody hell, that was the Darin case! You told me you hurt your hand boxing."

Sherlock smirks. "I lie, Lestrade. Surely this isn't news to you. If so, I may have to start breaking in a new DI."

Lestrade chuckles then, so high-pitched and thin that it's almost a giggle. He leans forward and rubs his forehead, muttering, "Oh, Sherlock, you crazy bastard." Sherlock allows a small huff of laughter and drops his cigarette to the pavement, grinding it out with his foot. He starts to walk away, John at his side, but when Lestrade doesn't follow he turns around and raises an eyebrow. Lestrade waves him off.

"Go ahead. I'm gonna finish up out here. And Sherlock – thank you."

Sherlock nods briskly and strides off. Every one of John's mental categories gets a new tally mark, and he hurries after Sherlock a tad more confused than how he started the day.

 

  


* * *

They are in the hospital.

As usual, Sherlock has gone and done something moronic. As usual, John keeps watch at his bedside.

Lestrade arrives as soon as he can get away from the Yard and takes a seat on the other side of Sherlock's bed. The DI is ashen, and John fears that he looks no better himself.

"Go get some coffee," he suggests after nearly two hours of persistent silence, but Lestrade shakes his head and reaches for Sherlock's hand.

"I'm not leaving 'til he wakes," he says firmly, and John puts a tally in the _lover_ category.

But then later on, when Sherlock finally cracks open his eyes, Lestrade points a furious finger at him and says, "You're an idiot, kiddo, you know that?"

Tally marks are added to _father_ and _brother_.

 

  


* * *

They are in the living room of the flat.

John can hear the shouts from his room, where he retreated hours ago in the hopes of getting some sleep. He has an early shift in the morning and the past few nights haven't been particularly kind. Lestrade and Sherlock have taken over the floor below, spreading out their files and photographs until they take up all available space. They have abandoned suit jackets and rolled up sleeves and for the past fifteen minutes have been bellowing at one another. It's not unusual for Sherlock to lose it at least once during a case, but John has never before heard Lestrade raise his voice.

He certainly is now, and it booms as much as Sherlock's. John can hear them clearly even through the door.

"If you would just let me - "

" _No_ , Sherlock. You can't exhume a random body for one of your experiments!"

"Why not? _He's_ certainly not using it anymore!"

"Do you even _know_ the meaning of the word "decency"?"

"At least I'm not dull and unimaginative like you. It's truly a wonder you've advanced as far as you have with the limited brainpower that you possess!"

John sighs and clambers out of bed, feeling in the dark for a jumper to pull over his pajamas. He senses an upcoming escalation in hostilities.

"Oh, that's original, insulting my intelligence! Like I haven't heard that before! Now, look, you –" Lestrade says, and John can imagine him pointing a scolding finger at Sherlock, "do us a favor and go and –"

The rest of the sentence cuts off abruptly as John eases open the door to the living area and steps through.

"Everything all right?" he asks, holding back a smile. They are a sight, the pair of them, hair rumpled from running fingers through it and shirts wrinkled from the labors of the day. They give mumbles of agreement and then Lestrade apologizes for having woken him. John smiles, shakes his head, and makes for the kitchen – he may as well make a cup of tea if he's not going to sleep.

The two descend into quiet mutterings once more as they try to puzzle out the different aspects of the case and John watches them from the doorway for a while. Lestrade is eating burnt popcorn from a bowl and leaning against the mantel while Sherlock paces, occasionally tossing in comments that get shot down and trampled upon by the detective.

"John, where did Mrs. Hudson put my skull? I know you gave it to her!" Sherlock eventually says in frustration, but John simply smirks and hides behind his mug while Lestrade lobs a piece of popcorn at Sherlock. It hits him squarely on the nose and bounces off.

"Oi! So I'm no better than your skull, am I?"

"Skulls don't make idiotic comments," Sherlock says in irritation, running a hand through his hair. His mind is still on the case; he doesn't even register that Lestrade's words were only mock-indignant. "Not usually, anyway."

Lestrade takes a handful of popcorn and tosses it at the detective. Sherlock blinks, coming back to himself, and asks, "What was _that_ for?"

Lestrade doesn't answer and instead digs up kernels from the bottom of the bowl and begins to pelt the detective with them. Sherlock puts up with it at first and affects a haughty expression, attempting to look as though the behavior is beneath him, but soon he is ducking and dodging the DI's assault. He dives for the scattered kernels on the floor, returning fire, and before John can protest about the state they're reducing the living room to Lestrade is lunging at the taller man.

He tackles Sherlock to the floor and they roll several times, coming to a rest in the middle of the room where they grapple with one another for dominance. There are yells of, "Lestrade, what the devil –!" and, "Better than your skull?" and, "Sherlock, _where_ are your hands?" and John darts around the wrestling pair, making for the stairs.

He wanders down again in the morning to find Sherlock asleep on the sofa and Lestrade gone. The detective is sporting a bruise on his cheek and a split lip, and when they see Lestrade again three days later John takes notice of a yellowing bruise along his jaw.

He wonders whether _school children_ is a valid category.

 

  


* * *

They are in the kitchen.

The room is ringing with the aftermath of a violent explosion. A tableful of dishes is now on the floor, shattered into millions of pieces, and Sherlock is leaning over the sink, gripping the edge so hard that his fingers are turning white. John is standing by the fridge, too stunned to move, and Lestrade is in the doorway, gentle eyes wide with worry at the startling reaction to his words. He has brought bad news to Baker Street before, but this – _this_ is new. He locks eyes with John for a moment, but the doctor shakes his head helplessly. This is Sherlock grieving, and he hasn't a clue what to do.

Then Lestrade is moving towards the detective, feet crunching over the shards, and places a hand on Sherlock's right shoulder. John fully expects him to shove the DI away; instead, Sherlock latches onto it with his left hand and holds tight. Their fingers lace together and Lestrade rests his forehead against Sherlock's temple, whispers, "I'm sorry; so sorry."

And later, as he's leaving, he presses a hand to Sherlock's shoulder and whispers, "You know where to find me, yeah? 'f you need anything."

John isn't sure what to make of that, and adds a tally to _lover, father,_ and _friend._

 

  


* * *

They are standing in an alley.

It's frigid and raining and they're staring at the body of a poor bloke who's had his throat sliced open; he died in a hot pool of his own blood. Lestrade's team are already in a terror of a mood due to the miserable conditions and Sherlock – who never, it seems, feels any sort of discomfort – is going out of his way to insult each and every one of them. Lestrade gets the brunt of it, as per usual, but the older man puts up with it in a way that Donovan and Anderson never will. They don't understand their boss' apparent affection for Sherlock and take their frustrations about the whole situation out on the only person they can get a rise out of. Unfortunately for them, Sherlock can dish it out as good as he gets it and it doesn't take long for the situation to get out of hand.

It starts out ordinary enough. Sally calls Sherlock "Freak" and Lestrade holds back reprimanding her because Sherlock can hold his own – this time, he takes care to point out that she's been spending more nights at Anderson's than she used to and it all sort of goes back to what passes for normal.

But then Anderson steps up to her defense – which she really doesn't need, but Anderson's never been all that observant – and it all goes to hell because Sherlock cuts him down in about five words and _then_ proceeds to outline all the different sexual acts he performed with Donovan over the weekend. John doesn't know who throws the first punch; all he _does_ know is that suddenly Lestrade vanishes from his side and a moment later resurfaces, hauling Sherlock off his officer and dragging him away from the scene. John raises an eyebrow; he doesn't know _anyone_ who possesses the strength to overpower the detective. Even he has difficulty with it.

"It's one thing to come into my crime scene and rifle through the evidence," Lestrade is hissing to Sherlock as John joins them. "It's one thing to refuse to follow the proper protocol and to break into my office and to pick the lock on my flat when you're _bored_. But it's entirely another for you to come in here, insult my team, and then _fucking_ attack one of my people!"

"Self-defense," Sherlock drawls. Lestrade seizes him by the front of his shirt and shoves him against a nearby car, looking absolutely furious.

"You knew _exactly_ what you were doing and you knew how he would react! You provoked him." Lestrade lowers his voice. "Don't make me choose between you, Sherlock, because you know who will win out. You can only push me so far; they're my _team_."

Sherlock smirks and leans forward to whisper something in Lestrade's ear.

He spends the next two nights in a cell and John debates for a while before settling on _colleagues_.

 

  


* * *

John is in the doorway.

It's late, too late, and he's just gotten back from an _ungodly_ number of hours at the clinic (flu season). He surveys their flat and the destruction that Sherlock hath wrought upon it. There's been a lull in crimes lately and the boredom has been nagging at his flatmate. He plays the violin at four in the morning and sleeps at four in the afternoon, (when John is away) and there's nothing to eat because he can't be bothered to go to the shops and even if they had food there's nothing to eat _on_ because he's been using their dishes for experiments (which are threatening to consume what little space they have in the living room).

But the flat is quiet now, and for the first time in nearly a week. John feels a growing knot of worry in the pit of his stomach and knows that he'll need to find his flatmate before he can even think about dragging himself upstairs to bed.

That proves easier done than said, however, for the first place that John checks is also the last. Sherlock is sprawled across his bed, fast asleep, and he isn't alone. Lestrade is in the bed as well, stretched out on his stomach, one arm tucked beneath him and the other outstretched, hand hanging off the edge of the mattress. Sherlock is on his side, one leg thrown over both the DI's, arms folded against his chest and head utilizing Lestrade's shoulder as a pillow. They have fallen asleep on top of the blankets and both are still fully dressed but the scene is achingly tender.

He adds a tally to every category sans _colleague_.

And in the morning, Lestrade rises before Sherlock and wanders into the kitchen, where John is attempting to wash a few plates so that they may have breakfast. He sits on the counter, crossing his legs at the ankles and looking fully ten years younger than John can ever remember seeing him. He offers to help but John waves him away (he's only making toast) and answers with a content, "Yes," when asked if he slept well. But then he catches the broad smile on John's face, for he is neither blind nor an idiot, and adds, "Sherlock's asexual, you know," because he knows all too well what _that_ smile means.

"Doesn't mean he's aromantic," is John's quick reply, and renames the _lover_ category so that it's _partner_ instead. He's suspected, of course, but it's not something one just _asks_ his flatmate. Lestrade smirks.

"You've done your research." He accepts a cup of tea gratefully, cradling it in both hands.

"What are you to him?" John asks bluntly.

Lestrade gives a gentle smile. "When I figure it out, you'll be the first to know. Well –" he pauses, considering, "maybe the second. Probably should let Sherlock know, first."

The detective chooses that moment to wander in, hair in disarray from sleep. There is a splotch of red on his right cheek from where it had been pressed against Lestrade's shirt for the better part of the night and he is barefoot and bleary-eyed. It's the first time – apart from time spent in the hospital – that John can remember the man as anything less than immaculate. The difference is startling; he looks almost carefree.

"You left," he tells Lestrade accusingly.

"I know," Lestrade says, an affectionate smile playing about his lips. "I was able to get you to sleep last night – thought I might try my hand at getting you to eat as well."

Sherlock looks less than impressed. John hands over a plate of toast, which Lestrade accepts with a nod and then says, "C'mon, back to bed. When you've eaten this and slept at least two more hours, then we'll discuss my cases. But _only_ then."

John fully expects protests but Sherlock merely nods and follows the DI out of the kitchen.

 

  


* * *

They are in the living room.

John is updating is blog and Sherlock is researching for an experiment that he's currently running in the kitchen and which John fervently hopes won't explode again. John has been staring at a single word on the screen for the past five minutes and can't for the life of him figure out what comes after it.

 _Lestrade_ …

He's mentioned the man in his blog before, but never in anything more than passing. And now there are a myriad ways to finish that sentence:

… _came calling last Tuesday morning about a body that had been found in the Thames._

… _has been putting up with Sherlock for years._

… _cares deeply for my flatmate._

"He's a good man," John says abruptly, more to himself than anything else.

"Mmm," is all Sherlock comes up with, his face buried in a dusty volume of some obscure title.

"He loves you," John adds, and he blinks because that hadn't been what he'd meant to say. He'd _meant_ to ask about the proper placement of a particular comma – he's always been rubbish with those, never putting in quite enough, and Sherlock has been filling up the comments sections of his blog with his corrections and snide remarks. And it really shouldn't have been all that startling, John muses once the shock of his statement wears off. The revelation isn't really a revelation at all – it's always been there; he just didn't know how to properly look for it.

"Yes," Sherlock says, still buried in his book, and John doesn't ask how he knows that he was referring to Lestrade.

"So do you-"

"Oh, come now, John!" Sherlock huffs. "Must everything single thought that passes through your tiny minds be voiced?"

"Only the important ones."

Sherlock shakes his head. "Why can't things just – _be_?"

"Because sometimes, Sherlock, we can't help but be human," John says in irritation. "And after all he's done for you – after all he's been to you – a kind word at the end of the day would go a long way."

"A long way to what?" Sherlock snaps back, and he looks so genuinely confused that John's voice softens.

"A long way to making him happy," he says quietly. "And that's important, Sherlock."

But at the end of it all, even after his not-revelation, John still has too many checks in too many boxes and cannot reach a firm conclusion.

Lestrade is everything at the same time.

And that's when it finally hits him – Lestrade is everything to Sherlock because Lestrade is _everything_ to Sherlock. Friend; colleague; brother; father; partner – everything all at once, larger than life, the whole world wrapped in a worn suit.

And so it ends where it began:

They are in Lestrade's office.

Another case has been wrapped, and John stands to one side as Sherlock and Lestrade finish their conversation, going over the final details and putting the finishing touches on the paperwork. And as they're on their way out, Sherlock pauses and turns around.

"Who was it?" he asks the DI. John frowns and traces the conversation back, trying to find the origin of the question, but can't place it. Lestrade, however, presses a hand to his temple and smiles ruefully.

"You wouldn't have known her. She'd only been here six months."

"Gunned down."

"Yeah."

John stares hard at the DI, but cannot point to a single difference in his appearance or demeanor that speaks to the loss. He can't see what Sherlock noticed; he doesn't know what gave Lestrade away. And while that's never unusual, Sherlock noticing things before he does, his detective friend has never been good at picking up the particulars of the human condition. John's noticed that he's usually unable to tell the difference between shades of emotion: happy and sad are obvious, but the subtleties between sad and angry and grieving often elude Sherlock.

The fact that he's able to pick up on Lestrade's quiet grief tells John more than anything else ever has.

"That's – unfortunate to hear," Sherlock says finally, and John catches the words that ripple just beneath the surface, the ones that hang over them long after the others have faded away into nothingness.

 _Thank God it wasn't you_.

Lestrade hears it, too, for he says in a low voice, "I wasn't anywhere near the shooting."

Sherlock nods briskly. "I'm glad."

Lestrade clasps Sherlock on the shoulder, eyes shining with something more than light from the lamps, and bids the both of them goodnight. Sherlock makes for the exit but John lingers for a moment, watching as Sherlock's world walks back into his office, gathers his jacket, and turns out the light even though from the looks of it he has at least an hour's worth of paperwork yet to do. He brushes his knuckles against the glass of the photograph on his desk and a small smile tugs at his lips; John turns and trots after his flatmate.

"How did you know?" he asks as they breeze through the building.

"You didn't?" Sherlock says absently.

"No – had no idea."

John assumes he's not going to get an answer when his statement is met with stony silence. But sometime after that Sherlock says, "I just knew," and sounds quite lost.

John understands why: he has nothing – no data, no evidence – to back it up.

"Sometimes you just do," he says reassuringly.

And the next morning, John opens the unfinished blog entry and erases Lestrade's line because he can't bring himself to sully what they have with words; it wouldn't do good to pin down something on paper that is so clearly undefined. It would lessen it; strangle it with terms and labels and neat little categories. And so he releases them, Sherlock and Lestrade both, and lets them just _be_.


End file.
